


If You Talk Enough Sense Then You'll Lose Your Mind

by jumpsoap



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - beats me buddy but it ain't canon that's for sure, And by Paradise Lost, Bahamut's ineffable plan, Demon/Human Relationship, Evil Prompto, Good good boy Ignis, Humor, Inspired by Good Omens, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, brief medical scare, having some fun with religion, mortal peril played for laughs, the redemptive power of unconditional thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-26 04:18:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19760434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumpsoap/pseuds/jumpsoap
Summary: Shiva, Goddess of Ice, Lady of Mercy, sculptor of beauty both great and small, found a special delight in teasing Her hot-tempered lover and adversary. When She noticed that there walked on Eos a mortal man named for fire, yet not destined for the flames of Ifrit's Hell, She had to bring it to His infernal attention.And if that made life a little more interesting for the hapless mortal and the even less happy daemon tasked with his corruption, Shiva couldn't be blamed for mischief wrought by the Lord of Daemons Himself.





	1. Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Ari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignisgayentia) for beta-reading! <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is rated T for cusses, but we're gonna call the overall fic Mature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I like Good Omens now--  
> My brain: Make it Promnis  
> Me: Oh holy shit you're genius

Whatever daemon had thought up metal benches at bus stops deserved worse than Hell. Prompto could hardly lounge indolently on a hard, sticky grate. Instead, he was sitting up straight, hands in his lap, which wasn’t even close to a proper daemonic posture. 

He had to sit here just a little longer, waiting for his latest trap to be sprung, resisting the urge to lift up his sunglasses and rub the dust and detritus of _mortal activity_ out of his flaming eyes. He was running out of ideas, and he would have to settle in for the long haul if this shot didn’t land.

Prompto was put on Eos for one reason: To bargain, persuade, or outright trick mortals into throwing their puny lot in with Ifrit, God of Fire, Lord of Daemons, the Betrayer, sworn enemy of both Astrals and mortals writ large. 

It was, by design, a devilishly easy quest. Humanity was flush with low-hanging fruit, ready to drop into the fires of Hell with the merest nudge. Prompto hadn’t had a problem filling his quotas for a thousand years. 

That was until he’d been in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Not that Hell was described by many people as the right place to be. But he was lingering there, delighting in the torments of a few particularly despicable souls he’d had a claw in damning. It really didn’t do for a daemon to get too enthusiastic about the work. Reflected badly on everyone else, and it could make one lose one’s focus at the most inopportune times.

So it had taken him just a moment longer than his peers to notice their Lord storming into Hell in a gust of sulfurous air that dunked two of the pitiful souls Prompto was watching deep into the lake of fire, and outright obliterated one who had been making an amusing attempt to climb out onto the sharp, steaming rocks. 

The other daemons had flitted away as soon as they heard the gates open, of course, which left Prompto alone with the God of fire and a few gurgling, sizzling members of the damned. 

There was nothing to do but drop into the most sincere and earnest genuflection his sardonic nature allowed him. “My Lord Ifrit, God of Fire, Lord of—” 

“Cease,” Ifrit hissed, slamming a fist down onto the rocky shore, launching a grapeshot of shards that just barely missed Prompto’s bowed head, a piece grazing his cheek. With His other great hand, He leveled a grizzled finger at Prompto. “There is a soul I will have, and you will secure it for me.” 

Prompto was already damned, of course, but he knew he was well and truly _fucked_ when he looked up and saw the telltale crust of ice on the Infernian’s hand, frost glittering among the matted fur. Ifrit had had some kind of encounter with the Goddess of Ice, Lady of Mercy, blah blah blah. That was bad news, and not even bad in the kind of way they liked down here.

Prompto didn’t pretend to understand the relationship between the Infernian and the Glacian. It seemed at once much too fraught for the Lady of Mercy and too wholesome for the Lord of Daemons. All he knew was that whenever Ifrit returned from—Fighting? Fucking? Both?—whatever their encounters entailed, He acted like He had something to prove. Which was, again, bad news for the poor fool who first caught His attention.

“As you command, my Lord,” was all he could say, poor fool that he was. Just tempting one soul to damnation—How hard could that be?

And here he came, Ignis _Stupeo_ Scientia. Walking down the sidewalk with his nose in a notebook, probably reviewing notes about which ones of his neighbors needed help with their groceries or how much he could donate to the food shelter this month while also saving for retirement. Prompto _hated_ him. 

He was on a direct course toward the thick leather wallet Prompto had placed in his path. The wallet itself was perfectly matched to Ignis’s personal style: sleek and black and lined with purple satin. Furthermore, it was packed with cash, credit cards, gift cards, and even a fully punched loyalty card to the boring coffee shop Ignis patronized every weekday morning. There was no way he could resist it. Prompto waved a hand, making the sidewalk tile rattle and shake the wallet into a spot in which Ignis would step on it if he couldn’t look up for one second to notice it on his own.

In fact, Ignis did notice the wallet a second before stepping on it. He paused, shoe nearly touching the item, before turning his foot on his heel to look at it. He bent down and picked it up, tucking his notebook into a pocket.

Prompto leaned forward, the ache of the bench digging through his tight jeans forgotten. He was opening it up—Yes! He wasn’t looking at the cash, but maybe he’d already seen the loyalty card. Ignis extracted a credit card from the wallet and took out his cell phone. Already making a purchase? Or perhaps calling his (heretofore unseen) debaucherous friends to invite them out for a night of partying on someone else’s tab?

“Hello, Municipal Lost and Found, please,” Ignis said, and then, “I’d like to report a lost wallet that I’ve just found on the street. Unfortunately I don’t see an ID in here, but there’s a name on the credit card…” 

Prompto groaned and let his head fall back against the bench, sliding down in his seat. He’d burned through all his go-to schemes. Even the most petty act of selfish betrayal could start Ignis down the path to damnation, but the man was the most loyal, diligent, and worst of all, selfless, mortal Prompto had ever had the misfortune of trying to tempt. He wouldn’t sell his company’s secrets to their competitors for any amount of cash; he wouldn’t take advantage of the parade of drunk, attractive strangers Prompto had sent knocking on his door ‘by accident’; he wouldn’t even cancel his dental appointments without giving 24 hours’ notice. 

He let Ignis walk away toward the crosswalk, striking up a friendly conversation with whatever goody two-shoes worked the phone at Municipal Lost and Found. He would try again, he had to, but he could take a few minutes or hours or weeks to wallow in frustration first. 

He rolled his head to the side to glare after Ignis, who was stepping out into the street as the crosswalk sign began to chirp, but his eye caught something else. A truck barrelling down the hill toward the intersection, toward _his_ target. 

Prompto jumped to his feet and stretched out a hand before thinking about it. In front of the truck, the cover flew off of a manhole just in time for the truck’s tire to hit the suddenly exposed hole, hard. 

There was a horrible screech as the truck tipped nearly onto its front, metal against asphalt. It spun like a very large and very heavy top, and then dropped onto its side, rolling with a _THUNK, THUNK_ , the rest of the way down the hill. It came to a creaking halt right in front of Ignis, who had stopped short at the edge of the sidewalk. 

Prompto let out a breath, hand falling to his side. That had been close. If Ignis had died before becoming corrupted, Ifrit would— Well, it didn’t bear thinking about. 

“I’m sorry,” Ignis said, still speaking into the phone, voice strained. “I have to let you go.” He hung up the phone and dialed a number, then turned around to look directly at Prompto, taking a step toward him. “You, there!” 

Dumbly, Prompto pointed at himself.

“Yes, you.” Ignis held out his cell phone to Prompto. “I’m dialing emergency dispatch. Please let them know what’s happened. I’ll check on the driver.” 

Prompto took it and, not knowing what else to do, held it to his ear while he watched Ignis run to the side of the upturned vehicle. Ignis had stripped off his blazer and was using it to clear broken glass away from the crumpled window frame.

“Public Safety, what’s your emergency?” A clipped voice asked through the phone.

For a moment, Prompto considered just hanging up, throwing the phone to the ground, and walking away. Saving a life—even if he had ulterior motives—was already too much of a good deed for one day, wasn’t it? But Ignis was over there, Ignis stupidly-good Scientia, crouching on the ground and telling the stunned driver that emergency services would be there soon, then looking over his shoulder at Prompto, pinning him there with a look.

Prompto grimaced and gave him a thumbs-up. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “There’s a car crash or something.” He squinted at the street signs above, trying to remember how to read. It had been a few decades. He made something up and told it to the dispatcher. 

“Are you certain that’s the intersection?” 

“Yep,” Prompto said, “Ohhh my gods the car’s on fire, gotta go!” He hung up the phone and sauntered over to where Ignis was now helping the driver stand. 

“You really shouldn’t be moving,” Ignis admonished the man.

“Oh, fuck, fuck!” The man said, pushing Ignis away. “My truck! It’s totally wrecked, fuck!” 

Prompto caught Ignis by the elbow as he stumbled back. “No good deed goes unpunished, huh?” he said, slapping the phone to his chest. Despite Prompto’s worst efforts, a fire engine was pushing its way through traffic up the hill toward them.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Ignis said, nearly fumbling the phone before putting it away and smiling right at the daemon who was here to tempt him to damnation. “Thank you for calling the fire department.” 

They retreated from the overturned car as fire fighters jumped out and began hosing the car down, over the objections of its owner. 

Prompto opened his mouth to say something sarcastic, but then Ignis touched him, just a brush of the hand over his bare shoulder. It was gone as soon as he felt it, but the brief, gentle touch left him stunned.

“Are you alright?” Ignis was asking. “Did something hit you?”

His hand was moving again, toward Prompto’s face, and Prompto stepped back to avoid it, touching his own face. He had a cut, there, from the Infernian throwing rocks around days ago as he gave him this quest. That had happened in another dimension; standing on the sidewalk here with Ignis, it felt even further away.

“No,” Prompto said quickly. “That’s from—it was already there. What about you, dude? You almost got turned into a pancake.” 

“Oh.” Ignis sat down suddenly, on the same bench from which Prompto had sat watching him. “You saved my life.”

Prompto panicked. “No I didn’t!” he said, laughing without meaning to. He straightened his sunglasses, ran a hand through his hair to make sure his horns were covered, did a mental check of the bits of clothing and accessories covering up the other undeniably daemonic parts of his anatomy. “What are you, stupid?”

“I may be,” Ignis said, smiling slightly up at him as though it were a shared joke. He still seemed shaken, hands gripping his knees, the fabric of his trousers bunching up. “If you hadn’t shouted, I would have walked right into the path of that car.” 

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Prompto said, relieved that he hadn’t revealed himself completely to Ignis. That would put a real wrench in the plan, Ignis knowing that one of Ifrit’s minions was following him around. Although... An idea occurred to him. “Maybe it was destiny.”

Ignis’s eyebrows flew up. “Destiny?”

“Yeah, maybe—” Prompto pulled a shiny, new, tri-fold brochure out of his back pocket, where it had just appeared— “Somebody’s got a plan for you.” 

Ignis took it, and read aloud off the front, “The Infernal Temple of the Betrayer.” He looked up at Prompto, eyes crinkling in an annoying way. What did he think he knew? At least he was looking less pallid. That meant he would be off his guard, and more susceptible to corruption. “You’re a worshipper of Ifrit?” 

“More of us every day,” Prompto said with a shrug. “Check it out. You never know, you might see something you like there.” 

“I’ll take it under consideration,” Ignis said, folding the brochure crisply in half. “Will you be in attendance?”

“Uh, sure?” Prompto said, bewildered. 

“Then I shall see you there,” Ignis said, smiling widely now.

Of all the things. If he’d known it would be that easy, Prompto would have led off with an invitation to the Infernal Temple. Mortals must have gone through some changes in the last few centuries if that was all it took to tempt them now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!


	2. Depravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a man continually fails to be tempted to damnation, would one call this a good thing, or a bad thing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignisgayentia) is, once again, a solid dude for helping me out with this.
> 
> Also, I think the least I can do to repent for this chapter is to plug [ The Satanic Temple](https://thesatanictemple.com/) here.

Prompto couldn’t help but feel a bit proud of himself for how he had handled the corruption of Ignis Scientia. And why shouldn’t he be proud? He was a daemon, after all, and revelling in a successful corruption was practically in the job description. If Hell gave bonuses, or any wages at all, then a bit of deserved gloating would surely be grounds for a nice little bonus.

And yet, a small, quiet part of him was worried. It was the part of him that didn’t want to be continuously flayed alive for sixty years, _again_ , the way he had the last time he had failed Ifrit. 

Maybe it wasn’t such a small or quiet part.

It just felt a little too easy. What if Ignis had changed his mind about visiting the Infernal Temple of the Betrayer and devoting his life to the worship of Ifrit? What if the Temple he went to wasn’t cool and awesome and tempting? 

What if—and he shuddered to think this—what if Ignis got there and started convincing the safely damned mortals to recant their sworn allegiance to Ifrit? 

The brochure Prompto had magicked up at the bus stop had been entirely generic, touting the values of selfishness and rebellion and downplaying the tortures of Hellfire. He’d had to whip it up on the spot, after all, and simply trust that there _would_ be such a Temple in the area. Ignis was going _somewhere_ on Friday nights now, so he must have found one.

So Prompto would just have to check in on him. Make sure the corrupting was going well. He couldn’t wait to witness what shameless acts of depravity the humans got up to at this Temple of the damned.

He was in a public bathroom just around the corner from Ignis’s apartment, getting ready and ensuring that he would be fashionably late for the Infernal service. He finished artfully mussing his hair and lifted his sunglasses to check himself over with unfiltered eyes. The mirror cracked when he winked at it, and he grinned, settling the glasses back into place.

Before leaving, he made sure to drop a handful of paper towels into the sink and jam the faucet open. It was what they deserved for stocking the bathroom with these awful, scratchy, brown paper towels. Not that he needed those. He heated his hands until the excess water steamed away, and kicked the door open.

It was a simple thing to follow Ignis’s trail from the doors of the apartment building to the Temple. Prompto’s daemonic senses could have picked out Ignis’s aura—purple and green and coffee and paper and all manner of wholesome things—all the way from Hell, at this point.

The trail led to the side door of a school auditorium, plain and squat, across from a deserted ice cream stand. In the darkening night, fat moths were gathering around a buzzing floodlight mounted at the fence that Prompto hopped over rather than using the open gate. The door was propped open, and a sign stuck in the scraggly bushes read: INFERNAL TEMPLE OF IFRIT THE BETRAYER - “FIREDAY” SERVICE! 

Prompto chewed on his lip, the taste of his own thick, black blood not really calming him down. This didn’t look promising. He’d been imagining something grand and imposing: towering marble, maybe, or a thin, sharp spire of baked clay. 

But maybe the Temple didn’t have a dedicated building because its congregants were too rebellious and rude to hold down a piece of real estate. At least the school building was made of red brick. 

Prompto peeked through the open door and saw a group of people sitting in flimsy, fold-out chairs facing a frail old woman who was holding a paper agenda. They weren’t even wearing robes, just casual clothes. Were they laying low?

He crept around the side of the building to look through a window. He didn’t even need to use his daemonic powers to open it. It was already open to the cool evening air. 

The old woman cleared her throat and said, “Yes, Ignis?”

He was there. Prompto gripped the edge of the windowsill and squinted to see him through the grate on the window and his own sunglasses, standing up from among those gathered.

“Thank you, Madame Auburnbrie. Following up from last meeting, I’m happy to report that I was indeed able to clear time in my schedule to manage the bake sale for science education at the end of this month.”

“Excellent news, we thank you kindly. You’ve been such a help already. We’ll be able to do a lot of good in defending education from superstition and fear if we reach our goal.” 

Prompto ducked down under the window and slammed a fist against the hard brick wall. _“Malboro spit,_ ” he cursed under his breath. These weren’t worshippers of Ifrit at all. 

He looked again, to see the others applauding Ignis for his generous assistance. A bake sale? Science education? This was the opposite of honoring the Infernian!

Prompto grew increasingly furious the longer he watched. He couldn’t take the blasphemous altruism anymore when a heavy man took the podium to show slides of a recent protest the congregation had undertaken against government torture worldwide.

He snapped his fingers, walking away from the school. Behind him, inside the auditorium, there was a crash, and a scream. He was all the way across the street, considering whether it would be worth it to break into the ice cream stand and grab a milkshake, before the so-called Ifrit worshippers got it together to flee the building. Greasy, black smoke was beginning to pour out of the open door and windows.

Prompto stepped back into the shadows and watched the mortals milling about, shouting and crying. Police officers joined the fire fighters, lighting up the whole quiet block with flashing lights and sirens. It was all over far too quickly for Prompto’s taste, no one detained or even interrogated very hard. He should have tried to make it seem as though the pitiful fakers had set the fire themselves. Next time.

Once the hubbub had died down, he tossed an empty styrofoam cup to the ground, crushing it underfoot as he emerged from the shadows. Ignis was comforting one of the members of the fake Temple.

“I’m sure the school has insurance for things like this,” he was saying, helping her into her car. 

“You’re right,” the young woman said with a sniff. “I’m just glad it didn’t happen while there were children there. Who could have imagined the lights would crash down like that!” 

“A terrible stroke of bad luck,” Ignis said, sighing. “But at least no one was harmed.”

Prompto could have gagged. He was arrested mid-eyeroll when Ignis shut the young woman’s car door and spotted him.

“Oh, it’s you!” Ignis had seemed so tired a moment ago, but he practically lit up when he saw Prompto. “Good thing you came late tonight. As you can see, the Temple has had quite a meeting.”

In the excitement of the fire, Prompto had forgotten his despair at his most recent gambit failing so miserably. Now he felt himself deflate, looking at Ignis’s cheerful and not even a little bit evil face. “Uh, yeah, I heard.” 

“So here we are again: you, me, and the fire department.” Ignis said, stepping up to his side and turning to face the steaming building across the way.

“Yeah,” Prompto muttered. “Here we are again.” Maybe the indirect approach just wouldn’t work. He took a breath, and turned to Ignis. “Hey—”

“I was—” Ignis started at the same time. “Ah, my apologies. Please, go ahead.”

Prompto tried again. “You wanna go get a drink?” 

“You’re a mind reader,” Ignis said, smiling warmly.

Of the many devious and terrible gifts Ifrit had granted Prompto along with his existence, mind reading was, unfortunately, not one of them.

They found a table at the back of a grimy bar near Ignis’s apartment. Prompto shifted around on his seat, kicking one leg of their high-top table in an erratic rhythm. 

“Ah,” Ignis sighed, smelling his drink before tasting it. “This place may not look like much, but I find many lovely things come in strange packages.” 

“Uh-huh,” Prompto said, not really listening. He was staring at Ignis, trying to figure out what a direct approach to his temptation could entail.

Ignis had ordered some kind of local craft beer, while Prompto had simply asked for a glass of cranberry juice, planning to subtly keep it topped off with vodka every sip he took. Much cheaper than paying for alcohol, and no one had yet noticed him daemonically tending to his drinks.

“You know, when I said you should check out the Temple of the Infernian, that place isn’t really what I was talking about.” Prompto said, too impatient to think of anything more subtle.

Ignis glanced at him. “It’s not?” 

“That crap isn’t what worshipping Ifrit is all about,” Prompto said. “Being nice and helping people. That’s a load of…” He sipped through the tiny straws sticking out of his cranberry juice, searching for profanity that would be strong enough to express his feelings without shorting out all the electronics in a ten-foot radius. 

“Chocobo poop?” Ignis suggested, and took a long drink of his beer, eyebrows up in an innocent expression.

Prompto wanted to take off his sunglasses and burn the man to a crisp on the spot. He wasn’t even sure that such a feat was within his power, but he was almost ready to try. “It’s not _chocobo poop_. What it is, is a huge wet turd squeezed out of Leviathan’s puckered up asshole.”

Ignis snorted into his beer, flecks of foam splattering his face. He set his glass down and wiped his face delicately with a paper napkin, still chuckling.

“So what Astral do you follow, anyway?” Prompto asked, propping his chin in one hand and holding his drink right under it. He wondered in the back of his mind what corner of Hell he could hide in until the Infernian’s wrath forgot him and moved to some other target. “Ramuh? Please don’t tell me it’s Bahamut.” 

“I’m not interested, actually.” 

Prompto choked on his drink. Maybe it was already getting a little too strong. “Huh?”

“I don’t participate in religion. I’m unaffiliated, you could say.” 

“But, like…” Prompto put the cup down for the first time that evening. “You have to.”

“I don’t see it that way.” Ignis shrugged and finished his beer, shifting as though to stand up and go to the bar.

Under the table, Prompto waggled his fingers and caused Ignis’s glass to fill half-way again, unwilling to pause this conversation. Ignis blinked in surprise at his glass, but he wasn’t trying to stand up anymore.

“You have to,” Prompto insisted. “If you don’t worship any of the Astrals, your soul won’t survive after death. You’ll just—be gone. It’s the worst punishment of all. Total erasure.” He looked away. “That’s what it says in the Cosmogony, anyway.”

“I wouldn’t presume to know what follows death,” Ignis said, settling back onto his chair. He took a cautious sip of his beer. Prompto hadn’t been paying enough attention to know if the beer he had filled it up with was anything close to the one Ignis had been drinking. Ignis set it aside and continued, “But to be honest, total erasure sounds like the preferable option, compared to an eternal afterlife of any kind. Hellfire or fields of snow alike.” 

Prompto stared at him. What was the point of even being human if Ignis was spurning the promise of life after death? “But you’d get to stay around. You’re just gonna, what, live for a hundred years or whatever—” How long did humans live?— “And then disappear? What if you died tomorrow? You’re okay with that?”

Ignis spread his hands. “If that’s how long I have, I’ll have to be.” 

It didn’t sit right with Prompto at all. He realized a part of him had been looking forward to having Ignis with him in Hell, a part of him that wasn’t motivated to corrupt Ignis because he’d been ordered to, or because he’d be punished if he didn’t. He’d gotten all _involved_ , imagining the tortures he could submit him to, the secret horrors he could reveal to him, all the pits and cliffs of Hell he could show him.

And now, to learn that if he failed, not only would Ignis not wind up in Hell, but he wouldn’t be in any afterlife at all? Gone? An entire cosmos without him, for the rest of eternity?

Ignis was speaking again, oblivious to the crisis Prompto was working through. “And what about you? I’m afraid I underestimated the sincerity of your loyalty to Ifrit. You really do worship the Infernian? It’s not a political stunt?”

“Uh, yeah?” Prompto said, shaking himself out of it. “What’s so weird about that?”

“Well, if the stories of the Hexathon are to be believed, you’re condemning yourself to a rather unpleasant afterlife, aren’t you?”

“I mean, it’s not so bad,” Prompto said. “Probably. You don’t know! Plus, it’s like you said. It’s really about your life on Eos.” He waved a hand around, thinking hard. “The way of the Infernian is to let your emotions be your guide. You already know what you need, so just take it. Thinking and planning, rules and shit, worrying about other people—that’s all a waste of time.” 

“Hm,” Ignis said. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

Prompto looked around, trying to think of something to press his advantage. Here at the back of the bar, squeezed next to a dusty arcade game, was a rumbling vending machine. “And following the way of the Infernian—” He reached back and slapped it— “Has its rewards, not just punishments.”

Inside the machine, something rattled loose and fell into the recess at the bottom. Prompto tipped his chair back and scooped the item up, then displayed it to Ignis as his chair dropped back onto all four feet. 

It was a can of coffee, the horrid kind that Ignis was always going around drinking whenever he wasn’t holding a fresh cup. 

“How did you do that?” Ignis marveled. 

Prompto popped the tab and handed it to him, and he took it. He really did look pleased. Prompto himself was feeling a little less sullen than usual. The alcohol, perhaps, was starting to get to him. 

He brushed off Ignis’s question. If a can of coffee was swaying him, he wasn’t about to admit that he was only able to do it because he was a daemon. If Ignis converted to _really_ worshipping Ifrit, Prompto would be happy to follow him around and summon him up as many cans of coffee as he could wish for. 

“It’s not like following the other Astrals,” Prompto said. “There aren’t a bunch of rules to follow. You can do whatever you want! You don’t have to worry about being good and doing the right thing all the time. Just chill out and do all the crimes and bad stuff you want.”

“And I’ll get free Ebony?” Ignis asked with a perplexed smile, seeming to have regained some of his composure. 

“Maybe.”

“Well, I’m pleased to tell you that, in fact, I already commit all the crimes and malfeasance I desire.”

“Like what?” Surely Prompto would _know_ about that by now. What, did Ignis set aside one day a year to go on a spree of theft and murder and any other dark urges that lurked in his heart?

“Well, you see,” Ignis said, setting the can of coffee down and leaning forward, about to impart an important secret: “Absolutely nothing.”

Prompto groaned and dropped his head onto the table with a resounding _thud_. “Bahamut’s balls,” he mumbled, a dried up piece of gum on the tabletop rubbing against his cheek. “I hate your guts.” 

Ignis chuckled and patted one of Prompto’s arms where it was stretched out over the table.

Prompto was, perhaps, unusually ‘touchy-feely _’_ for a daemon. He had never been shy about slapping his brethren on the shoulder (or the ass) to get their attention or congratulate them or annoy them. Mostly to annoy them. And he had no problem manhandling mortals, whether that involved dragging them by the neck when they tried to escape the tortures of Hell, or invading their personal space to threaten or sweet-talk them to make a decision that would be to their eventual detriment. 

He wasn’t used to the behavior being reciprocated.

He looked up from his own forearm at Ignis, who was watching him thoughtfully, lifting the can of coffee to his lips and drinking from it. 

“You look tired. Are you ready to call it a night?” Ignis asked.

“Yeah,” Prompto said, swallowing dryly. 

“I’ll settle the tab,” Ignis said, sliding out of his chair with another touch to Prompto’s arm. 

Prompto dragged his cup back over and tipped it into his mouth rather than lift his head up. The liquid inside was only faintly pink by now, almost pure vodka at this point.

Ignis was speaking to the bartender as he paid. “The machine back there seems to have had a problem, and ejected a can of coffee without any payment. May I pay you for it here?”

The bartender made a quizzical sound. “That machine doesn’t carry coffee…”

“One hundred yen will be sufficient, I hope.”

Prompto pushed his drink away, dizzy with alcohol and frustration and confusion. It was all he could do not to flip the table. Instead, he simply stood up, the chair moving silently against the floor, and slipped out of the bar while Ignis’s back was still turned. He stalked off into the night, a storm kicking up above him. 

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do it tonight; he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to. The corruption of Ignis Scientia was a lost cause. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psychic: *reads Ignis's mind*  
> Ignis's mind: [[video]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fk954mlAcvM)


	3. Downfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If anything at all was going according to plan, it certainly wasn't going according to _Prompto's_ plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with four planned chapters! Because I'm great at estimating how long it takes to tell a story.
> 
> Thanks again to [Ari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignisgayentia/pseuds/ignisgayentia) for proofreading for me :3 
> 
> See end note for content warning re: medical scare

“I’m not _giving up_ ,” Prompto said, flopping down onto a velvet loveseat in the consultation room of the bridal shop and kicking his feet up onto a delicate little coffee table.

Without looking up from the tea she was preparing, Lunafreya waved her hand, and a folder of fabric samples wiggled out from under Prompto’s boots, magically undirtied. 

“I never said you were,” she said, setting a fine crystal teacup on the table next to Prompto’s grubby boots. She sat down beside him, holding her own cup with two hands.

“I’m biding my time,” Prompto explained. “Totally legit. The stupid human can get all the stupid goodness out of his system without me. I’ll try again later. Like, ten years later.” 

“This world can be harsh,” Luna said. “It’s a miracle when a mortal commits to doing right for any length of time. I would not be surprised if time alone does indeed erode his will.” 

Prompto narrowed his eyes at her. “You have to tell me if one of your people got to him first, y’know. Otherwise it’s entrapment.”

“Oh, I know,” she humored him. The bell at the front of the store tinkled, and she swept away to greet her customers, leaving Prompto to stew.

The tea was cold, of course. He blew on it until it started to steam. 

It was always freezing in Luna’s shop, the air conditioner running on full blast year-round. Beautiful things surrounded them: flowers that always looked and smelled fresh as a winter morning; dresses and suits of all shapes and colors; a glass sculpture of Shiva Herself dominating one corner of the room. 

Prompto had no need to hide his fiery eyes from Lunafreya, but he kept his sunglasses on regardless. He preferred to have some barrier between himself and all that. 

They weren’t friends, not exactly. But Ifrit and Shiva, of all the Astrals, were most concerned with the lives of mortals on Eos, and that meant that Prompto and Lunafreya, as their respective servants, had spent a lot of time with their feet on the ground. Their paths had inevitably crossed over the ages. 

The Infernian tolerated the Glacian’s company, on occasion, so Prompto didn’t see it as a problem if he kept up a professional relationship with Luna. She was better company than any daemon—not that Prompto would ever admit it aloud.

The vase of sylleblossoms at Prompto’s elbow had begun to wilt by the time Luna returned. He didn’t notice her standing in the doorway and watching him until she sighed.

“I do have a small tip for you,” she said, returning to sit with him again. “Consider it repayment for that bit of trouble you helped me with during the invasion of Tenebrae.” 

“Mm?”

“That man you’ve been hoping will topple the big bank,” she said, taking both their cups of tea back to the kitchenette and refilling them.

Prompto had to think for a moment. “Titus Drautos?” It wasn’t his assignment, but every daemon knew of the machinations going on to ruin the Citadel Banking Cooperative and with it, the economy of the entire country.

“Rumor has it,” Luna said, handing him his refilled cup, “The Draconian Himself is taking an interest in the case.” 

“What?” Prompto sat up, the tea in his cup starting to boil. 

“Not intervening directly, of course,” Luna said. “Not yet. But it seems someone involved in the leadership of the bank has invoked Him, and my sources say that He may have listened.”

Bahamut had few agents on Eos, took few actions. He considered Himself above the mortal world, and not simply in the literal sense. Every other Astral and their minions considered this, on the whole, to be for the best. His involvement in the matter portended bad news for Titus Drautos, bad news for the archdaemon guiding his actions, and ultimately, bad news for the Lord of Daemons Himself.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Prompto said. 

“Perhaps you could avoid the wrath of your master if you were able to warn your confederates of the unwelcome attention,” Lunafreya suggested.

“But Ardyn’s working on Drautos. And he’s a shithead,” he reminded her.

Luna shrugged minutely. “Let him walk right into the Draconian’s jaws, then.” 

Prompto should have been happy to do just that. He didn’t particularly care if Ardyn’s plots against the Citadel Bank were successful. And what if Luna’s ‘tip’ had been an underhanded way of enlisting him to help her with some scheme of goodness she was working on? What if he would be doing the _right_ thing by warning Ardyn of Bahamut’s possible involvement? 

It was all far more thinking than he was accustomed to. 

While he was wandering the streets, focusing all his attention on _not_ thinking about anything, he wound up by complete coincidence at the doors of the Citadel Banking Cooperative. A huge, sleek building right in the middle of downtown, it towered over even the other skyscrapers, casting a purple light into the clouds hanging low in the sky. 

Prompto slipped through the rotating door and was crossing the lobby before he could second-guess himself. It couldn’t hurt to indulge his curiosity.

It was simple enough to disable all the security measures the humans had in place against unintended visitors: guards became distracted by a sudden itch; electronic locks overheated for just long enough to short out for a moment; cameras fogged up with brief humidity. It would be pitiable, really, if Prompto could feel pity. 

He got to a bank of elevators at the back of the lobby and one opened for him, a glitch overriding the need to scan a keycard. Once the doors closed, he realized he didn’t know which floor Titus Drautos worked on, or, in fact, anything else about the company.

Except that Ignis Scientia worked here, as well.

That wasn’t the point of coming here today, though. He jammed a button at random. 

The elevator opened to a quiet hall. Fake plants flanked the doors, and metal sculptures hung on the walls. He crept forward into the hallway, looking around for any confirmation or denial of Bahamut’s involvement. 

He was already bored, and frustrated with himself for wasting time on this. There was a smell of iron in the air—probably imagined, he reassured himself. But it made him nervous. He resolved to do one lap around the floor and then get out of there. 

Professionals in suits passed by Prompto once or twice, too absorbed in their work to even spare him a glance, despite how out of place he must look. Just as it should be; typical humans being just as ignorant and self-absorbed as ever. He peeked into open doors, sniffing around, making a half-hearted attempt to scout out the place. The elevator doors were in sight and, blissfully, he’d found nothing.

The elevator doors, however, slid open long before he reached them. Prompto froze. 

A tall, wiry man with short-clipped hair stalked out, cell phone to his ear. No, not a man. He stopped short, lowered the phone, and looked directly at Prompo. There was steel in his eyes.

“You lost or something?” The man asked, staring him down.

Prompto gulped. It was all true. Luna had not been bullshitting him. There was no question _This_ was a servant of the Draconian, here on Eos, meddling with mortals as He hadn’t in centuries. 

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled. 

“Out.” The man pointed at the elevator, and Prompto all but ran to it. 

He listened to the floors _ding_ by with agonizing slowness. Had it taken this long for the thing to go up? When the doors opened, he didn’t realize that the elevator hadn’t arrived on the ground floor until he almost collided with two people trying to board. 

“Watch yerself,” one of the men sniped at him, shouldering past him to push the already-lit lobby button several more times. 

Prompto backed into the corner, watching the humans warily out of the corner of his eye as they all waited for the elevator to descend. 

“Where’s that Scientia boy, anyway?” The gruff man said suddenly. “Asked him for a report days ago.” 

The younger man shrugged, not lifting his eyes from his cell phone. “Haven’t heard from him. Give him a break, he’s probably just sleeping off the weekend.”

“That’d be a first.” The first man grunted, but at that point the elevator reached its destination, and they left. 

Prompto stared after them, long enough for the doors to begin to shut again. He made it out, not bothering to disrupt the cameras or the guards this time, oblivious to their gazes. 

The most important thing to do right now was to warn Ardyn, or Ifrit, or anybody, of what was going on at Citadel. Ifrit’s tiffs with Shiva and his whims regarding what mortals he wanted to collect withered to nothing in comparison to the archdaemon’s decades-long plan to take out the bank. 

Prompto knew all this, but he still found himself at the door of Ignis’s apartment, shifting from foot to foot and staring at the handle like a jackass.

He was inside there. Prompto could feel it. But no answer came when he knocked, no call or footsteps at all. Was he really sleeping? _Ignis_? At noon on a workday? 

Prompto popped the lock open with a gesture and burst in. It was silent and dark inside. Everything was neat and tidy, the decoration minimal but tasteful. Of course.

There was just one thing out of place: on the floor just past the entryway was a cellphone, reflecting the sparse light coming in from the hallway behind Prompto. 

He rushed forward, and as the kitchen came into view around the corner, he saw him.

Ignis was collapsed on the ground, cell phone a few feet from his open hand. Its screen was cracked.

Prompto knelt next to him, hands hovering over him. “Shit, shit,” he muttered. He shook Ignis’s shoulder. He was breathing, and felt warm, but didn’t rouse, even when Prompto rolled him over onto his back.

“Fuck, dude,” he said, looking down at Ignis. He was fully dressed as though to go to work, but his glasses had fallen off at some point. A dark bruise spread across his jaw, probably from the fall he had taken. “Don’t you have anybody to check on you?” 

But no, a look around the apartment confirmed that Ignis was the only one who ever set foot in here. Well, and Prompto, now.

“Alright, come on,” Prompto grunted, squirming his hands under Ignis’s dead weight to get a grip on him under the armpits. Ignis’s head lolled back when Prompto lifted him as well as he could. He dragged him like that across the kitchen floor, kicking the cell phone out of the way.

He’d never actually been inside Ignis’s apartment before, but he could see the bedroom through an open doorway off the kitchen, and heaved and tugged him that way.

Panting, Prompto hauled him up onto the bed and laid his hands on him, reaching out with his senses to try to understand what had happened. 

Something was broken, an injury from the inside. Swelling inside the skull, blood still seeping slowly where it had no business being. What did humans typically do when their brains began to bleed?

Prompto had always tried his best to remain ignorant of as many details of human life as his position allowed, but even he knew the answer: they died.

He walked away and paced around the kitchen, face in his hands. “Okay,” he said once he stopped, bracing himself on one of the countertops and looking at his reflection in a skillet that hung on the wall. “Okay.”

He removed his sunglasses and left them on the counter, then returned to the bedside. He pulled up a chair and sat looking at Ignis, laid out on the crumpled blankets. 

“Okay,” he said one more time, rubbing his hands together. 

It would be easy. He had the power to hurt people, to make them have a bad day, to spoil their plans. He just had to _hurt the fact that Ignis was dying_. To make the injury have a bad day. Really, it would be better for Ignis, in the long term, to die now, before Prompto could complete his quest to condemn his soul to eternal torment. So there was no reason at all that Prompto couldn’t use his daemonic powers to heal his body.

Prompto bent his head over Ignis, and prayed.

At first, nothing happened. Then he began to hear whispering, coming from all dark corners of the bedroom, under the bed. He shut his eyes against it and focused on Ignis’s body, his head, the rupture inside his skull. The voices grew, louder and louder, and the temperature rose in the room until it was unbearably hot, even for Prompto.

And then it stopped, and Prompto was waking up, face pressed hard against something warm and solid. A hand was covering his own.

Prompto groaned and lifted his head up, rubbing numb indentations on his cheek from—oh. From the buttons on Ignis’s chest, where Prompto had slumped over atop him for who knew how long. 

He jumped when he realized that Ignis was awake, Ignis was looking at him. Ignis was holding his hand.

“You,” Ignis murmured. “I thought I’d never see you again.” 

“I’m here,” Prompto admitted, pulling his hand away. 

Ignis gasped. “Your _eyes,_ ” he said.

Prompto paused, hand still on his face. He’d taken off his sunglasses, and now Ignis had to face the undeniable fact that he was a daemon.

“They’re beautiful.” He closed his eyes, face pinched up in pain. “What… what are you doing here?”

Stupid, wonderful human. Prompto let out the breath he had been holding, and reached over to brush damp hair off of Ignis’s forehead. “You weren’t doing so hot, buddy.”

“Oh.” A deep, labored breath. “Am I dying?” 

“No.” 

Ignis smiled, eyes still shut. “You always show up when something happens to me. Like a guardian angel,” he said.

“Sleep,” Prompto told him, and laid a hand over his eyes. 

And he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Ignis has a stroke in this chapter and is found unconscious in his apartment by Prompto. He makes a full recovery (via magic).


	4. Damnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~Daemon Prompto is a moro-sexual~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS TIME it's the last chapter y-y Enjoy!
> 
> And one more shout-out to [Ari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignisgayentia), who provided beta-reading and moral support.

Ignis, of course, didn’t sleep forever. That was kind of the point. For some reason that Prompto couldn’t explain, especially not to himself, he stayed at Ignis’s bedside through the day and night. He watched him sleep and spoke to him when he woke, hanging off the edge of consciousness himself. 

Ignis had questions. They were easy, at first. Prompto’s name. A request for water. 

They became more difficult. 

Prompto, exhausted, told him everything. He couldn’t be bothered to make up stories or even deflect. He didn’t know if Ignis would believe him, or if he would remember what he was confessing. 

His voice seemed to put Ignis to sleep. Prompto kept his eyes fixed on a solitary piece of art hanging on the opposite wall while he spoke. He leaned back into the chair, which had gravitated closer to the bed, and propped his feet up atop the comforter. They may as well have been lying side-by-side. 

When he could bring himself to glance over at Ignis, he found his eyes closed, breathing even. Then Prompto would lean his head back and doze again, only for Ignis to grasp him arm and ask him something else, and the whole cycle to repeat. 

Eventually, Ignis settled into a deeper sleep, the lines of pain and tension of his body easing away. Prompto left him there, pulling the bedroom door shut behind him and leaning against it. He looked around the apartment glumly. 

There were large windows along one wall, sunlight filtering in around the edges of the blinds. The kitchen dominated the main room, free-standing shelves of food and cookware infringing on the living area. A small, modern dining set sat between the kitchen island and a carpeted area that held a low couch and a wall-mounted television. 

Art hung on the walls, prints of impressionist paintings in muted colors. A cluster of potted succulents and bushy herbs crowded the window over the kitchen sink. It was nice enough, if you liked things clean and neat and tasteful. 

Prompto snooped around, finding a second room that was set up as a home office, decorated in much the same way as the rest of the place. On the desk sat a pair of photos: one featuring Ignis standing stiffly beside an older relative; the other a lower-quality shot of a crowd of young people, college or even high school students. Ignis was there, skinny and long-haired with pimples on his cheeks, pressed in close to the others near the edge of the frame, smiling shyly. 

These photos were the only sign of any other person in the entire apartment. 

Prompto returned to the kitchen, found his sunglasses on the counter, and slid them on. He still felt tired, wrung-out. He needed a coffee, a soda, an energy shot. All three at once, maybe. He waved his hand, willing a drink to appear.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, trying for something smaller. But he couldn’t even summon up a single piece of caffeinated gum. He was completely burnt out.

Cursing, he searched Ignis’s kitchen for something that already existed. He found a bag of something called _coffee beans_ in a cabinet. Prompto tore open the bag and frowned at the hard, dry things. How did humans convert this into coffee? He wished, for the first time in centuries, that he’d been paying more attention.

“You’re still here.”

Prompto nearly dropped the bag of coffee beans. Ignis was up, standing in the doorway to the bedroom, still wearing his crumpled-up work clothes.

“Um. Yeah.” 

Ignis took a step toward him, releasing the door frame. He was squinting without his glasses. “Do you really—That is, are you—” He gestured at Prompto’s face. “May I see?” 

Prompto pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead, and they looked at each other with nothing between them.

Ignis drew closer. “Astounding. I never dreamt…” He seemed to shake himself, and looked at the coffee beans in Prompto’s hands. “Did you want coffee?”

“Can you make it?” Prompto asked, unsure if the question made sense in context.

“Of course.” Ignis took the bag, but didn’t do anything for a moment, looking puzzled. “But can’t you simply… Didn’t you say you can just—” he snapped his fingers— “Do things?” 

Prompto crossed his arms, looking away toward the plants growing on the windowsill. “I’m kind of low on juice. For a minute.” He glanced at Ignis, looked away again when he saw he was still being stared at. “It’ll come back.”

“You saved my life,” Ignis said, as though he was just realizing it. 

“It’s no biggie,” Prompto said, hunching his shoulders more and turning away entirely. “I mean, it’s kind of my job. If you beefed it, I’d be in trouble. Just, y’know, remember who’s looking out for you.”

“I will.” 

Prompto wanted very badly to know what kind of look Ignis had on his face when he said that. But he didn’t want to turn around and see.

Before he had the chance, their moment was interrupted by a whining, rumbling growl. Prompto spun around, fully expecting to see a monster in the kitchen.

He just saw Ignis, hand to his stomach, looking embarrassed. “Pardon me,” he said. “I don’t actually know how long it’s been since I’ve eaten. I’ll get this coffee started and see what I have.”

Prompto retreated to the other side of the island to watch Ignis. He used a very loud device to destroy the coffee beans, and then transferred the resulting sand to a pitcher which he filled with hot water. The water turned to coffee as it mixed with the sand. Then he used another implement to tamp the sand down to the bottom of the pitcher, and decanted the coffee into a mug, which he handed to Prompto. It was all very complicated for what seemed like a simple product, and Prompto wondered why Ignis had been so impressed at him just for pulling a can of Ebony out of a vending machine. 

Ignis sighed as he looked into his refrigerator. He shut the door. “How about this,” he said. “We’ll order delivery. Is there anything you eat?”

Although Prompto shook his head, when Ignis made the phone call—first finding his phone and clucking at the crack on the screen—he ordered several items of food, more than it seemed one recently bed-ridden person could be expected to eat. He then grimaced down at his rumpled clothing and excused himself to bathe, apologizing to Prompto as though he were a guest.

Prompto listened to the shower run and drank his coffee at the island. He looked down into the dark, steaming cup. It was strange. There was danger outside, gods feuding and daemons scheming. But the apartment was solid and quiet, and the coffee tasted good. He’d never known coffee to taste good before.

The doorbell rang, and Prompto nearly jumped out of his skin. He approached the door and looked through the peephole, only to see an impatient young person holding a paper bag. The food.

He flipped his sunglasses back over his eyes and opened the door.

“Order for Scientia?” The delivery person said, popping her chewing gum and lifting up the bag.

“Yep,” Prompto said, taking it.

“Sixteen fifty-nine.” 

“You sure?” He bared his teeth and lifted up his glasses to leer at her, using the last reserve of power he had to make the flames in his eyes flash. 

She made a choking sound, throat bobbing as she swallowed her gum. He threw the door closed and heard her footsteps pounding away.

Prompto hummed to himself and brought the bag of food to the kitchen, popping open the stapled top.

“That was fast,” Ignis said, emerging from his room in a t-shirt and jeans. He’d found his glasses, and with his hair wet and slicked back, he looked much more like himself than he had. “Oh, dear, I forgot to find any cash. Were you able to pay them?”

Prompto smirked and tossed his shades onto the counter, winking. “Guess it was on the house this time. She forgot to ask.”

“Ah. I see.” Ignis sighed, but took the plastic container of soup that Prompto handed him.

Maybe Prompto was finally making a dent on his integrity. The thought didn’t cheer him like it should have. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “She’ll find some money on the ground.” He realized he was still without powers. “Um, at some point.” 

Ignis smiled at him and Prompto busied himself digging a packet of something deep fried and spicy-smelling out of the bag.

They ate on the couch, food spread over the coffee table, the television playing some terrible game show with far too many commercial breaks that nonetheless held their attention rapt. Prompto complained continuously about the contestants while Ignis chuckled—at them or at him, he didn’t know.

“I don’t know what to think about all you told me,” Ignis as he loaded the leftover food into his refrigerator, speaking across the room to Prompto, who remained on the couch.

Prompto had almost managed to forget the gulf between them: that he was a daemon and Ignis a mortal, that he was there to ruin Ignis. And now that he remembered, he wasn’t sure which part he had forgotten. That he wasn’t like Ignis, or that Ignis wasn’t like him?

“I really am glad to see you again,” Ignis continued. “Even disregarding the help you gave me.” The fridge shut. Prompto kept his eyes on the television.

Ignis came back, and sat on the coffee table across from where Prompto sat on the couch. 

“Prompto,” Ignis said, his name sounding strange in that voice. “Why did you stay with me last night?” 

Prompto licked his lips, unwilling to meet his gaze. He didn’t know what he might say if he looked into Ignis’s eyes. He didn’t want to know. The television prattled on.

A hand touched his own. “Please,” Ignis said to him. “I don’t know that I can really understand what you are or what you’re here to do. But I like you, Prompto. You must think me terribly foolish, and I suppose I am, but I really do like you. I’d like to know if it’s simply professional interest keeping you here.”

Prompto looked at Ignis’s hand laying on top of his. “I shouldn’t have healed you,” he whispered. “It’s not what I’m supposed to.” 

Ignis shifted forward, hand touching Prompto’s chin, their gazes meeting for just a moment. Prompto didn’t stop him when he leaned in and touched their lips together; worse, he kissed him back, gripping his shoulders to keep him there, a wholly unnecessary effort.

Prompto was filled with a _wanting_ that he’d never known before. It was nothing like the selfish needs he’d spent his existence chasing, petty desires fulfilled as soon as they arose. It felt like something hard and heavy in his belly, and it took a strength he didn’t know he had to swallow it down and push Ignis away.

“Stop,” he said, throat catching on the word.

Ignis sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling back. 

“Gods _damn_ it. Don’t—It’s not—” Prompto turned his eyes up toward the ceiling, trying to look as though he was rolling his eyes and not blinking back tears. “You can’t do this, Ignis.” 

“You don’t want to?”

Prompto squeezed his eyes shut, and the tears filling them sizzled away. He wanted to. “I’m a daemon. You’ll be corrupted.” 

“Are you sure?” The television shut off, plunging the room into a thick silence. Ignis’s hands touched his cheeks, cradling his face.

Prompto cracked his eyes open to see Ignis watching him with a tenderness and focus that no one had ever directed to him before. “I don’t know.” 

“Why don’t you let me find out?” He leaned in, their foreheads touching, breath mingling. So close to letting Prompto taste his lips again. “I’m not afraid.”

“You don’t want to go to Hell,” Prompto argued weakly. “I don’t want you to.”

Ignis’s thumb brushed over his cheek. “But you’ll be there, won’t you?”

 _Yes_. Yes, he would be there. Prompto reached for him, unable to deny himself or Ignis any longer. He pulled Ignis onto the couch, pushed him down onto it and climbed on top of him, greedily taking as much as he could in this fleeting moment. Letting Ignis take all he would of him, as well. 

They melded into each other, and it didn’t feel like anything demonic. There was fire: not the scorch of hellfire, but the gentle warmth of a hearth. There was, also, a jolt of electricity when hands touched bared skin; the chill of breath over sweat, raising goosebumps; the undulation of the tides in their movements. The couch and room around them felt as steady as solid rock. They were drawn together like iron bars, magnetized.

Afterwards, Prompto slept. Not the dozing or catnaps he’d indulged in for most of his existence, more out of curiosity than need. A deep, paralyzing sleep during which he dreamed, visions both pleasant and frightening that slipped away as soon as they surfaced.

Prompto awoke slowly, senses fuzzy, drool sticking his cheek to something. He found himself sprawled across the couch, butt-ass-naked, an amazingly soft blanket draped over him. He could hear typing in the room, and he pulled the blanket over his face. 

The typing stopped. “Are you awake?” Ignis was asking him softly. He grunted in answer, and got a chuckle in return. “That’s alright, sleep all you like. I’m just catching up on some work.” 

It took a few tries, but Prompto did manage to rise to a vertical position, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders and dragging himself over to the dining table, where Ignis was dressed again and working on his laptop. 

“Hello,” Ignis said brightly. “My apologies, I just need to finish up this—” He glanced up, and then did a double-take. “Prompto.”

“Mnm?” Prompto knuckled the moisture out of one of his eyes. 

“Your eyes…”

Hadn’t they been over this already? “What’s wrong with ‘em?” he asked.

“They’re blue.”

Ignis didn’t even flinch at the withering look Prompto gave him, which was more worrisome than the statement itself.

Prompto brushed past him, back to look at his reflection in the skillet hanging above the stove. He pulled the skillet closer on its hook, staring at himself. “What the _shit_?” 

“Let me see.” Ignis had followed him over to the stove, and Prompto let him tilt his head up, looking into his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, and Prompto felt it pass over his scalp without catching on the horn nubs that should have been there.

Prompto reached up and touched the tips of his own ears, and they were round and soft. He ran his tongue over his teeth, flat and even and dull. 

“Has this ever happened before?” Ignis asked. “You look… human.”

Prompto shook his head and turned away to look at himself again.

“Perhaps you’re simply ‘out of juice’?” Ignis suggested.

“I don’t think so,” Prompto said quietly.

“I’m so sorry,” Ignis said, sounding truly, genuinely regretful. “I didn’t—I thought I might be risking something, but I never imagined—”

Prompto covered Ignis’s mouth with his hand. “Shut up. Shut _up_.” He slapped his second hand on top, just to be sure. “I hate you so fucking much.” He tried to growl it out, or at least hiss, but somehow, even to his own ears, the words came out sounding _fond_. “If you say one more nice, good, _stupid_ thing, I’m—I’m gonna—” 

Ignis pulled Prompto’s hands away and pressed his lips to one palm, then the other. “Then I shan’t.” 

He would break his word soon enough, of course. Ignis couldn’t seem to help himself. As he led Prompto into the bedroom, he didn’t say anything, but his eyes were patient, his hands gentle, every touch a question and an offer. The words would come later: _You can stay here, I’ll help you, don’t worry_. _I’m here_.

Something that went far beyond appearances must have changed in Prompto, though, because he could no longer bring himself to hate any of it. Not that he would admit it aloud. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it here, thank you so much!! With every increasingly attenuated, out of character AU I write, I become more powerful.


End file.
